Hope
by Faramir's Tumbleweed
Summary: Faramir battles with angst and selfdenial after he fails to recapture Osgiliath.
1. Darkness Descends

**Summary: **I am not afraid to die.

**A/N: **I used to be known as FANofFARAMIR, but I am now Faramir's Tumbleweed. Maybe just F. Tumbleweed... depends, actually. Anyway, despite the different name, I am still really the same person.

**Warning: **I think you should have a tissue handy, just in case. But I guarantee no tears. Book/movie canon.

**Disclaimer: **I own only Duhildir. The rest I am merely borrowing.

I am not afraid to die. I have never doubted that. I have eluded death so many times that it feels like a tiresome routine, a routine that must stop one day. And perhaps, if is best that if death finally catches up with me. I am not afraid to die; we all must die, sooner or later.

What do I fear? I fear his disappointment, his anger. I fear his voice saying to me, "You have failed me. Your brother would have seen that what was given to him was done right." I fear his eyes telling me that I would return to my apartment, nursing my wounds. And not just my physical wounds.

The shirt of mail seems to heavy. The breastplate clings to me. The helmet makes every noise sound like a worthless, empty echo.

I was and am not a warrior. Boromir was the strong one; he was the one that saw that what was given to him was done right. I wanted to be a scholar, someone learned in lore and music. But since the day I drew my first breath, I had a path paved out for me: to be a soldier and to defend Gondor. To defend her people, as the ones before me have done so.

The soldiers are kissing their wives and children and sisters and mothers goodbye. "You must come home," says the women. "I will," replies the soldier. Will he? No one is saying anything to me. They give me sideward glances, as if they are curious to see my face. No one says anything to me.

The soldiers greet me with a salute , as a sign of their obeisance. But what _do _they think of me?

"Every man should have a woman to share his bed, little brother," Boromir once said. "Perhaps we shall find one, you and I." Boromir never did find one. Perhaps there was a woman in the City who had loved him. Who knows?

It is warm as we ride down the ancient streets of Numenor. Will this be the last time that I ride through the beloved streets of Minas Tirith? Will this be the last time when I gaze upon the faces of her children, all so sorrowful yet hopeful? What is dying like? I imagine my death: A thousand orcish arrows fly out at me, and it stings. Yet, I ride on.

I do not fear death.

I am not afraid to die.

Someone calls my name. I turn. It is Mithrandir.

"Don't throw your life away so rashly or in bitterness," he says to me, a stern yet tender light in his eyes. "You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!"

Liar.

The gates whine and creak as they open. The soldiers at the gate give us solemn, mournful looks. Do they know, like I do, that we are going into the jaws of death? Into the dark, dank pit of no return? Perhaps they will find our bodies, stricken on the field. And they will bear us up in great honor.

I turn back, at the last moment. Is my father staring down from the Citadel? Is he wondering when I shall return? _If _I shall return? I imagine a single tear making its lonesome way down his cheek - and I know that I am merely dreaming: my father does not cry. I do not remember him weeping when my mother died. He had kept his emotions bottled. Perhaps if he _had _cried, he would not be as bitter as this.

"I love you, my father," I whisper, turning back. There is as task now to be done, and I shall see that is done right. As Boromir would have done, if he were here now.

_Why are you trying so hard to live up to me? _Boromir asked me once. _I should not be your benchmark, little brother. We are all wrought differently. You are meant for burying yourself in your dusty books, and I am meant for the battlefield. There are better men than I, Faramir_.

Why am I?

The steady rocking of the horse reminds me of the great Pelennor before me. A wind sweeps down from the North, making shining, green ripples in the grass. The banners are flapping in the breeze. The banner of the Stewards, the banner of Minas Tirith. I imagine each of those banners lying shredded in the field. Honor lost.

_Doom drove them on. Darkness took them,_

_horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar_

_sank into silence: so the songs tell us. _

I play this verse over and over again in my head until my ears are ringing with it. Boromir had taught it to me when he returned from his first two months of training. "We are both lords, little brother," he said when he had finished. "We are going to make the men of Minas Tirith proud, both of us. We'll make our father proud of us, won't we?"

_I have failed him_, I thought to myself. Perhaps by my death, I can redeem what I have failed to accomplish.

I drew my sword, its ring resounding over the pounding of hooves. The world seems to darken before my eyes, and I hear men drawing their swords. Spears and pikes glisten in the morning sun. But there is the copper of fear in my mouth.

"For Gondor!" I cry at the top of my voice. "For Gondor and for the White Tree!"

"For Gondor!" the men cry back at me. They are excited, and the horses smell battle in the air. They stomp and ride faster. I kick my horse into a full run, and the men are still crying, "For Gondor! For the White Tree and for the Lord Faramir!"

_For the Lord Faramir..._

It's too late. I cannot turn back to look at them. The horses are whinnying. Thunder is pounding on the ground, kicking up dust, flattening grass.

Osgiliath, Citadel of Stars.

_For Gondor and for the Lord Denethor. _I whisper, "Father."

I see orcs, the faces of enemies. Goblins, hobgoblins, and the foul faces of our enemies. They are smirking. They have blood on their faces. Perhaps they have been feasting on the flesh of the comrades already fallen there. They will not feast on me and be drunk on my blood. I will make this a worthy end. They are fitting their foul arrows to the black bows.

"If I should return, think better of me, Father," I had said. I had hoped, then. How am I to hope now? Hope is gone.

"That will depend on the manner of your return," said Father. I will not return; and I shall not see the pride in his face as he embraces me and says, "Well done, my son," as he always did with Boromir.

Somewhere above the thundering of hooves and crying of men, I hear someone yell, "Fire!"

The twang of bowstrings.

There is a searing pain in my side. I hear the last cry of several men behind me. They fall off their horses and are crushed by the oncoming ones. Are people watching us from the City? or is it too great a distance? What will my father say when the men bring my mangled, battered corpse to him?

I yank out the arrow from my side, only to have another implanted in my chest. More death-cries.

"For Gondor!" shouts a man.

Is it really worth it, to be fighting for Gondor?

From the corner of my eyes, I see a banner fall. _Honor lost..._

By some miracle, we ride into Osgiliath. There are at least a century of men behind me. We cry, filling Osgiliath once more with the cry of her children. I crush an orc under my horse's hooves, and black blood spurts up.

_The nightmare has begun, _I think as I see another wave of orcs coming to relieve the ones at the front. I utter a prayer to Eru, and I fight.

I am not afraid to die.

We fight and fight. I do not know how long we fought. But my limbs are aflame with the fire of weariness. I look around. Half the men have fled in terror or are dead. But there are still some alive. The fate of all of us lies in my hands. I wipe blood from my face and I cry, "Retreat! Retreat! Retreat to the Causeway Forts! Retreat for all you hold dear!"

What _do _I hold dear?

We spend the night in fear. The injured men fight hard not to cry out in pain. I cannot sleep, fearing that an assault will be let loose upon us and I shall not be ready for it.

"Lord?" asks one man. "What are we waiting for?"

"Daylight, or some form of movements from the enemies," I reply. I cannot retreat now. I cannot and must not return to Minas Tirith. I cannot face him. If need be, I will send the men back, but I shall stay to fight to bitter's end.

I am not afraid to die.

Daylight brought Harads down upon us. The men, weary as they are, fight. I draw my sword, notched and already somewhat blunt. I hold back and then, there is a stinging fire in me. "For Gondor," I whisper, trying to make my body obey.

I fight until a darkness closes in, and I see no more. They will feast on my flesh and be drunk with my blood.

I am not afraid to die.

I have failed him.

It seems like an age. I hear the garbled talk of the orcs, and I hear the cries of the men, of those not quite dead. They are eating them, I am sure of it. It will not be long until they come for me, devour me.

_One thing the enemy can never take from us, _said Boromir as we sharpened our swords, _is our spirit, little brother. They can never take the burning loyalty in us. Remember that._

You are wrong, my brother. My beloved brother. For once, you are wrong. They have taken it from me. They have for a long time.

I am not afraid to die.

"Amroth for Gondor! Amroth for Faramir!" New voices; a familiar language. I hear noises all around me, but I cannot open my eyes: they are stuck together by dried blood. Slash, hack all around me. "Amroth for Gondor! Amroth for Faramir!"

A voice. A familiar, soft voice. It is my uncle, Imrahil. "Faramir," he says. "Oh sweet Valar. What was Denethor thinking?" My uncle curses blindly. I feel a laugh wanting to emerge, but I have not the energy to open my mouth and let it loose. My chest heaves, but my ribs hurt. The laugh dies away.

Cool water on my eyes. A gentle hand wipes at my eyelids. I open my eyes. Everything is so hazy; everything is fuzzy at the edges. I see my uncle above me. There is another soldier next to him. There is concern written on their faces.

"This might hurt," says my uncle.

I am not afraid to die. I am not afraid of pain.

But the next thing I feel is a fire leaping up my chest. I cry out in pain. For the first time in years, I feel tears springing to my eyes. My uncle snaps an arrow into half and casts it aside. The soldier is now washing my forehead. It feels soft and tender. Perhaps the enemy has caved my skull in.

I am not afraid to die.

"We cannot stay here," says my uncle. "Duhildir, help me."

Duhildir carries me over my shoulder. I open my eyes a little further, and I smell sulphur and smoke. And perhaps, the smell of charred flesh. I see dead bodies: orc, a son of Gondor, a son of Amroth. Enemy, brother, friend. I want to cry and sleep at the same time, and I cannot decide which to do first.

Fate decides for me. I sleep.

**A/N: **Please R&R!

Did y'all cry?


	2. Darkness Lingers: I

**Summary: **Faramir battles with angst and self-denial after he fails to recapture Osgiliath.

**A/N: **Thank you all for the beautiful, beautiful reviews. I changed the title and summary for the obvious reasons. I originally meant for this to be a one-shot, but what the heck? I'm enjoying this story meself!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters.

_to Dimfuin, who wanted me to continue._

I see many things. An oily darkness with her foul tendrils reached up and clung to me. It fills my hair and darkens my vision. Then, a slender beam of light appears, and I see my brother and my mother. My mother is holding someone, and I realize that it is me when I was yet an infant. I walk toward them, wanting to join them. Their backs are turned to me, and when I call out, "Mother! Boromir, my brother!" they turn around, and I see skulls with their horrorible empty sockets.

I hear many things. Unseen voices speak to me. They taunt me, mock me, jeer at me. "You have failed him, Faramir. You have failed him--again!" "Your father is not going to be happy with you, Faramir!" Their laughter fills my ears and I turn and crawl on all fours, away from them.

"No!" I cry.

Dark shapes arise. They have shapeless faces, and their eyes are ruby-red. "Come with us," they say, beckoning me with their smoky, misty fingers. "Come with us."

"Where?"

They do not tell me. They tell me, "Come with us. Come with us."

I want to follow them. I think that if I follow them, I would not have to face him. I am not sure where it would lead. I am not afraid to die. A shape offers me his hand, and I am almost ready to offer them mine when I hear a voice calling my name.

"Faramir! Faramir!"

There is a faint breeze, and the dark shapes scream and disappear. The skulls crumble and are swept away. My head pounds and I wonder who is calling me. The voice does not cease to call me, and I see the light appear again. I walk toward the light.

My eyes open.

There are a pair of kind, grey eyes looking down upon me. It is eyes filled with wisdom and understanding. For a moment, I think it is my father, but I do not say anything. My head clears. It seems like the sweet scent in the room is helping me clear my head. Who is this man? I gaze at him.

And I know.

"My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?" I ask.

"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!" says the king. He is smiling, and I wonder if he had seen my brother die. "You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."

"I will, lord," I say. "For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"

"Farewell then for a while!" says the king. _Aragorn_, I remember his name from a conversation long past. ""I must go to others who need me." And he departs.

With a sigh, I fall back onto the bed. I feel so weary, and I close my eyes.

The dark shapes return again. They do not let me go this time. They bind me tightly like chains, and they scream in my ear. I see my father. I cry out to him, "_Adar! Adar!" _He gazes at me with his stone-cold glare, and he says, "You failed, Faramir. You failed."

I brush away the shapes and I awaken. I am sweating, my sweat soaking through my bandages. My wounds are aching. Slowly, I take in the surroundings around me. Someone has lit a candle, and I see Peregrin. He is standing there, and he looks at me with his unfathomable eyes. The last time I saw him, his eyes were filled with mirth and a happy-go-lucky air, two things I wished I posessed. Now, they are...

I am frightened.

Fear.

Panic.

"Peregrin," I breathe. "What brings you here at this ungodly hour of the night?"

"Gandalf - I mean, Mithrandir," says Peregrin, "heard you tossing and turning, lord. He asked me to watch you, just in case."

"Thank you," I say, not feeling grateful at all. "Thank you." Peregrin does not move. I ask, "Peregrin, what of my father? Is he safe? Has he asked for me."

Peregrin's eyes are now filled with emotion, and he says slowly, softly, "Your father, lord? He is dead."

He is dead? My father is dead? Why? No, it is I that should be dead, is it not? My father does not deserve to die. Did the enemy break into the City and slay him? Or did his own men turn on him and... and...

"Dead?" I repeat.

"Yes, lord," says Peregrin. "I was instructed not to tell you, sir, but I think that you have the right to know."

"H-how?" I stammer. "W-when?"

"Not two nights pass," says Peregrin, as if he is saying something he is not supposed to. "He - he..." Peregrin stops. "I have said to much, lord. Good evening." He turns to leave. And I remember that I have the power to stop him.

"No," I say. I never liked to command men, and the word comes out awkward and strange. "Stay. Tell me, Peregrin. I bid you tell me."

Peregrin says, "Gandalf bid me not tell you."

"_Tell me_." I narrow my eyes, and I stare at him. And then I see it: pure fear and horror in his eyes, as if talking about my father's death is also churning up terrible images for him. I regret my words, but Peregrin is already speaking.

"Your father built a pyre in the tombs," says Peregrin. "He wanted to burn himself - alive, because he was so sure that the enemy would break through. He burned himself. A-and the _palantir _he posessed."

My father posessed a _palantir?_

Something in Peregrin's eyes told me that he is not telling me everything. I say, "Why are you not telling me everything? Why did Mithrandir want to keep this from me?"

Peregrin says, "Because your father wanted to kill you." He looks at me for a few moments, and he turns and is out of my chamber.

He wanted to kill you.

Kill you.

You.

_Me._

I see it now. I see why he went against the Council's decisions and went ahead in sending me to Osgiliath. He knew that I would not return, and when I returned to Minas Tirith - alive, yet barely - he wanted to see that the task he had set out to do was done right.

"... as Boromir would have done."

I feel like my heart has been torn out and ripped into a million pieces. Thoughts run through my mind. What if the halfling was lying? What if Mithrandir had bid him to lie to me, to hide the real truth from me?

No: Mithrandir never lies.

But there is always a first time.

I pick up my pillow and I fling it across the room. It knocks a earthenware cup off a table, and with a crack, the cup shatters into pieces. I stare at the cup.

To be alone in this world... I have always felt alone, even though Father was still alive. But I loved him. Now, with the knowlege that he is gone and he had tried to kill me... living is worse than death.

I am not afraid to die, I remind myself.

A few mornings later, I go the gardens. It is empty, and I am glad: I want some time to sort out my thoughts, and to take in everything that has happened. I find myself looking East, to the craggy black mountains and the red light behind them. Evil does not sleep. What if the Shadow _does _come and takes over the City? What, then, shall I do? Fight? I am weary of fighting. Flee? Where shall I flee? If the Shadow comes, there shall be no place to flee to.

"My lord Faramir."

I turn and I see the Warden standing there. I find myself asking wearily, _What does he want now?_

"My lord, here is the lady Éowyn of Rohan," says the Warden, stepping aside. "She rode with the king and dwells now in my keeping. But she is not content, and she wishes to speak to the Steward of the City."

The woman - nay, I would not call her a woman; for she is a girl barely out of her childhood. But when she raises her eyes to me, I see so much pain and sorrow in it that I am surprised that she is so young. I am afraid: those were the eyes of my mother. I signal for the Warden to leave.

"Do not misunderstand him, lord," says Éowyn politely. "It is not the lack of care that grieves me. No houses could be fairer, for those who desire to be healed. But I cannot lie in sloth, idle, caged. I looked for death in battle. But I have not died, and battle still goes on."

_I looked for death in battle._

I nearly gasp. However, I manage to control myself, and I speak.

"What would you have me do, lady?" I ask. "I also am a prisoner of the healers."

She does not reply. Can she see it in my eyes, too, that I am one tired of... of... all _this? _I try again, "What do you wish? If it lies within my power, I will do it."

There is the soft light of triumph in her eyes, and she says with an elusive smile. "I would have you command this Warden, and bid him let me go."

Go? Go where?

"I myself am in the Warden's keeping," I say softly. I feel as if I am afraid to disappoint this child. "Nor have I yet taken up my authority in the City." The triumphant light dies, and I continue, "But had I done so, I should listen to his counsel, and not cross his will in matters of his craft, unless in some great need."

"I do not desire healing," Éowyn says. "I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Theoden King, for he died and has both honor and peace."

Perhaps we are not so alike: she wishes to ride to war when I am tired of it. And she wishes honor, when I just desire peace.

"It is too late, lady," I say, "to follow the Captains, even if you had the strength." Suddenly, I find that I am speaking more to myself, "But death in battle may come to us all yet, willing or unwilling. You will be better prepared to face it in your own manner, if while there is still time you do as the healer commanded. You and I, we must endure the hours of waiting."

Am I willing or unwilling?

I am not afraid to die.

Am I?

A sudden tear rolls down her cheek, and I am surprised.

"But the healers would have me lie abed for seven days," she says softly. "And my window does not look eastward."

I feel pity for Éowyn: so young yet so sorrowful and pained. And devoid of hope.

_What about me?_

"Your window does not look eastward?" I say. "That can be amended, lady. In this I will command the Warden." I decided to help the Warden, just a bit. "If you will stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest, then you shall walk in this garden in the sun, as you will; and you shall look East, whither all our hopes have gone. And here you will find me, walking and waiting, also looking East. It would ease my care, if you would speak to me, or walk at whiles with me."

Éowyn looks me in the eye, and I hold her gaze. _She is challenging me._

"How should I ease your care, my lord?" she asks with a mocking tone in her voice. "And I do not desire the speech of living men."

I look at her in the eye, and her gaze does not waver. "Would you have my plain answer?" I ask, wondering if she was teasing me.

"I would."

I feel a sudden burst in me, and I say, "Then, Éowyn of Rohan, I say to you that you are beautiful." I take a step toward her; she does not flinch. "In the valleys of our hills there are flowers fair and bright, and maidens fairer still; but neither flowers nor lady have I seen till now in Gondor so lovely and so sorrowful. It may be that only a few days are left ere darkness falls upon our world, and when it comes I hope to face it steadily; but it would ease my heart, if while the sun yet shines, I could see you still. For you and I have both passed under the wings of the Shadow, and the same hand drew us back."

Éowyn's gaze softens, and she says sadly, "Alas, not me, lord! Shadow lies on me still. Look not to me for healing! I am a shieldmaiden and my hand is ungentle. But I thank you for this, at least, that I need not keep to my chamber. I will walk abroad by the grace of the Steward of the City." Éowyn sweeps into a graceful curtsy, and she turns around and walks away.

My mind is spinning, and the lies I spoke feel bitter in my mouth. Yes, she is beatiful; yes she is sorrowful; yes it may that only a few days are left. But am I ready to face it steadily? Am I ready to watch my world be devoured by the Dark Lord's forces? What would have Boromir done?

_Why are you trying to hard to live up to me? _Boromirs asks me again. I hear an audible voice, and I whirl around to see if anyone is standing there. No, no one is.

But I reply, "I don't know."

I don't know.

**A/N: **Will update as soon as I can. Hope y'all liked this chaper. Please R&R!


	3. Darkness Lingers: II

**Summary: **Faramir battles with angst and self-denial after he fails to recapture Osgiliath.

**A/N:** Thanks for the lovely reviews. I feel this is the best angst I have ever written. Anyway, I feel this is a rather confusing chapter.

**Disclaimer: **Faramir says: "She poses me as an angst-ridden soul. Really, I am nothing but an ordinary guy. She does not own me, though, thank the Valar."

The hobbit, Meriadoc, sits across me. The miniature ivory and ebony men are laid out on the chess-board infront of us. Meriadoc picks up his ebony knight and moves it to where my pawn stood. He replaces my pawn with his knight and says, "Your turn, lord." The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he has a secret move he does not want me to see.

I look up at Meriadoc, and he is looking at me. I say, "I did not invite you in here for a game of chess. You know that, do you not?" I search his face. It is solemn; all sign of amusment is gone.

"I know. What would you have me tell you?" He looks on the chess-board again, as if pondering on what to say.

"About Éowyn. I would like to know about her, for she puzzles me greatly," I say, wondering if I have said too much. Meriadoc does not react. I pick up my castle and move three spaces forward. "Check."

Meriadoc nods and says, "Excellent move." Then he says, "You have seen her sorrow, too, haven't you?" He smiles a crooked smile and says, "That was the first thing I noticed about the Lady." He moves his king out of danger. "Do you know why she rode to Minas Tirith?"

"Why?" I ask, even though I know the answer.

"Because she looked for death, my lord," says Meriadoc, watching me capture a knight. "She has seen so much that she feels life is empty and hollow. And now, her uncle is dead."

"I thought she has a brother."

Meriadoc nods again. A sandy curl falls into his eyes, and he brushes it away with an impatient sweep of his hand. "She does," Meriadoc admits. "Éomer is a good brother, I have no doubt about that. I feel that she is his only reason for living. But one man's love is not enough. Do you understand?"

"I do."

Meriadoc hesitated. Then he says, "She loves Stri--I mean, the Lord Aragorn. There is a time when she was happy, when she thought that he loved her, too. But he does not."

I imagine Éowyn's grief when she finds out that Lord Aragorn does not return her love. And I know. She felt hope when she met Lord Aragorn, but he offered her only a sisterly love, she felt devastated and felt that she had nothing left in this world. So, she sought death.

Is this why I feel life is so hollow? Because Boromir has died? Boromir, one of the two people that had loved me, suddenly gone... Was it too much for me to bear? Did my father love me? What do I feel now, now that I am all alone?

Without thinking, I capture his queen. Meriadoc gives me a small smile; and he suddenly captures my king. "Check mate," he says, although there is a regretful note in his voice.

"I did not see that."

"Frodo taught me that."

"Frodo? The one who is on his way to--" I stop myself.

Meriadoc drops his voice. He averts his eyes and says, "Yes. The one who is going to Mordor." He turns to my window. He speaks, though he sounds like he is talking more to his friend, so far away, than to me: "All our lives lies in his hands."

I clear the board, sweeping everything into a wooden box. I stand up and I say, "Would you like to come to the gardens, Master Hobbit? We can continue our conversation there, if that is alright with you."

He nods and says, "Yes. I would like to see the gardens."

The next morning, I think about the Captains who have ridden east. I think about Lord Aragorn. It seems so long since I last saw him in the houses, right before me. Why did he reject her love? Did he already have another maiden, waiting for him in some distant place?

_Every man should have a woman to share his bed, little brother. _The words echo in my head, and I force myself not to think about relationships. I have this churning feeling inside me, yet it is not unpleasent. It feels like a yearning... but a yearning for what?

"Good morning," says a hesitant voice.

I turn and I see Éowyn. She is clutching the hem of her cloak between her hands. There are dark circles under her eyes; her eyes are alert, yet they look distracted. She looks like a ghost. I wonder if she suffered from nightmares last night, or if she has been sleeping for the past few nights.

"Good morning," I reply. She joins me, and we say nothing. I cannot help but find my mind wandering to her. _She does not deserve death, _I think. _She should have a chance to live, a chance to learn to love again. _And I found myself asking: _Why am I so fearless of death? Am I denying something I do not want to admit? _My mind trembles and shakes with questions.

Éowyn asks me, "Do you have any family, Faramir?" Her face is calm and shows no emotions. Her eyes are so...

"No," I reply. "I do not. My father..." I hesitate. "He died not too long ago. He was the last of my immediet family."

"Did he love you, Faramir?" She is slowly stretching out of her dark world.

My face must have shown some hostility to this question, for she quickly recoiled, saying, "I am sorry. It is not my business to pry." I sense her pulling back into her little dark world of sleepless nights. I feel sorry, and so I speak.

"I--" What should I say? I think of Mithrandir's words again, and I look away. Finally, I say, "I don't know."

Éowyn gives me a bitter smile, and she says in an embittered tone, "Isn't it like this life, lord? We don't know what will happen today or what tomorrow will bring." She looks back east, her smile not fading.

Here is a lady like I have never met before! She is bitter and cold, yet she does not desire pity. She wants to fight while all the women in our City were sent away. Is it the way her life is? I am suddenly tongue-tired, and I murmer, "Excuse me."

Without waiting for her to reply, I flee to my apartment. There is a copper basin of water in the corner. I fill it with water, cold from sitting in its jug. I splash water on my face. I look up into the mirror, and I see another ghost. Another ghost with dark circlesunder his eyesfrom nightmares and sleepless nights.

**A/N: **I am sorry if you did not like this chapter as much. Well anyway, I've gotten to the point when Faramir is sorting out his emotions. Please R&R!


	4. Darkness Lifts

**Summary: **Faramir battles with angst and self-denial after he fails to recapture Osgiliath.

**A/N: **This chapter is up! I know that excerpt of the song has nothing to do with the story, but I thought it is meaningful.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters. So there.

Any moment  
Everything can change  
Feel the wind on your shoulder  
For a minute  
All the world can wait  
Let go of your yesterday  
--_Fly_

I open my eyes; the last image of my dream fades. It is still dark. The night is old. It will be dawn in three or four hours, I reckon. I do not move. I lie on my back and stare at the stone ceiling above me. When I was younger, I used to have terrible fears that a stone might come lose and crush me in my sleep.

My mind is all jumbled up. The past few days spent speaking, walking with Éowyn has caused much restlessness within me. I cannot find words to express myself, and each moment with her, I have to force words out. Words that truly come from within me, but sound strange in my mouth. I talk about hope, when at times, I feel that there is no hope. I talk about death. I talk about how I fear it not, but now, I am doubting that. Clearly, Éowyn enjoys speaking with me. But do I enjoy doing the same?

Ever since Boromir perished, I have feared having time to myself. When I am alone, I think. And when I think, I churn up old thoughts. Thinking, to me, is like rain churning up old mud on the river-bed. I think about the happier times with my father, before the death of my mother, before he became a bitter, withdrawn man. Always speaking about how I am nothing like my brother Boromir, speaking about how I do not have courage to my lord's will. Wizard's pupil. Under his words, a finger pointed.

Did I love my father? I did. I believe I did. But so many things that I believe in all fade away. There was a time when I believed that someone might come and draw my father from his bitterness. Alas, he was bitter until the day of his death.

Why did he try to burn me with him? Did he really hate my so much?

I think and think and think about this. Memories flash before my eyes, and I feel like weeping. These memories are all that is left of my family. I want the memories to go away, so that I can be rid of the past and so that I can move on.

_Move on to what, little brother? _Boromir asks me. I hear his voice in my head.

_To another life, _I say to him. _To another life where I can forget that I had a father that sought to burn me while I was yet breathing._

_He was breathing, too, _Boromir reminds me. _You must understand, little brother: at the time, the world seemed bleak, and the Enemy's victory seemed imminent. Father truly believed that there would be no dawn for Minas Tirith. He wanted to die before the Enemy broke in. And he wanted to take you with him, so that you would not be slain in your bed._

I ponder this for a while. I do not want to admit it. _Stop speaking up for him._

Boromir seems to ignore me. _You cannot be rid of the memories, Faramir. They are a part of you. You can lose them, but you can never be rid of them. Do you understand?_

Frustration. _No, I do not. _

I feel Boromir smile. _You will. You are very smart, Faramir, whatever our father might have said when he still walked among the living. You are smart. You will understand. _

The next morning, I go to the gardens. I find that a wind had risen in the night from the North. It is still blowing down. It does not lift the grey, dreary mists surrounding the lands. I feel the mantle under my arm, and I think of my mother. I remember her smiling face and her dark curtain of hair. I think of Boromir's words again.

_You cannot be rid of the memories, Faramir. They are a part of you. You can lose them, but you can never be rid of them._

I think of the time Father brought us to Dol Amroth for the summer.

"_Mamma! Mamma!" Boromir cried, carrying me piggy-back. "Faramir has stepped on a piece of coral!"_

_Mother stood up, left her sewing, and came to us. Boromir put me on the sandy ground. I lifted my left foot. There was blood streaming down the sole, and it dripped onto the sand. Mother sighed sympathetically. She said, "Boromir, help Faramir into his room."_

_Boromir piggy-backed me once more into my room, where he carried me to the bed. There was blood on the sheets now. Mother came in carrying ointment and bandages. She places my bloody foot onto her lap, not caring that tbe blood was being absorbed into her gown. _

_I sat grimly as she pulled out a piece of coral. It hurt, but I wanted to be brave for her. It stung when she rubbed the ointment. She smiled as she wrapped my foot. When she was done, Mother gave me a hug. She kissed my forehead. "That was for being such a brave boy," she said, smiling, "for not weeping."_

_"Thank you," I said, hopping off the bed and carefully testing my foot. Satisfied, I ran to join Boromir at the beach again. I heard the ring of Mother's laughter following me down the hall as I went back into the sun._

It is like I have forgotten that there was a time of joy in my family.

"Faramir," calls a familiar voice behind me. It is Éowyn. When she is standing next to me, I show her the mantle. Her face shows surprise as she takes it from me. She strokes the material and says, "This cloth is good. Is it yours?"

"No," I say. "It is yours now."

Éowyn's face threatens to light up in a smile, but she says, "I cannot accept it."

"You must," I say. "The day is cold. I do not want any blame for letting you catch pnuemonia." I force a smile, and Éowyn accepts it. She puts it on. Suddenly, I am captivated by her. Her gold hair spilling past her shoulders, and the way her pale skin is a stark contrast to the blue cloth.

Éowyn looks northward. Her eyes have a distant look in them, and I sense that she is searching for something.

"What do you look for, Éowyn?" I ask, taking a step nearer toward her. I look north and try to search for what she is looking for.

"Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?" she asks. I nod. "And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away."

"Seven days," I say to myself. _It has been one week, _I think. "But think not ill of me, if I say to you," I say: "they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed." Éowyn's face darkens. "Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found."

Éowyn looks at me, her brows slightly depressed. "Lose what you have found, lord?" she says, a grave look in her eyes. "I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all. I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me, I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I want for some stroke of doom."

I find myself thinking of my mother. Boromir had once said that when Mother was alive, she had feared the shadow stretching from Mordor across the Anduin. _She feared for us, _Boromir had said. Was she, too, waiting for the stroke of doom?

"Yes," I whisper, "we wait for the stroke of doom."

The wind slowly dies. There is not a sound to be heard. It is as if the wind has persished, voice has been silenced, bird is extinct, every leaf has been burned, and breath has been stopped. _Time has frozen, _I think.

Without thinking, I take her hand and she holds it.

A soft cry passes Éowyn's lips as the walls of the City quivers with a tremor.

"It reminds me of Numenor," I say despite myself.

"Of Numenor?"

"Yes," I say, half to myself, "of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."

"Then you think that Darkness is coming?" Éowyn cries. "Darkness Unescapable?" She draws close to me, and I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She seems grateful for this.

"No," I say softly. I look into her face, at her porcelain-white skin and grave eyes. How could a lady as beautiful as her be so devoid of love, of hope? She deserves more than this. "It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen, and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny! Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!"

And I find that I mean it.

I kiss her brow. Embarrassed, I turn away.

A new wind rises and blows.

The Sun unveils herself; the Shadow departs. The light of the Sun shine upon the waters of the Anduin, making it shine like silver. Suddenly, we hear a strange noise: In all the houses of the City, a thousand voices rise as people sing.

I feel Éowyn's hand tightens around mine.

At noon, someone cries, "Look!" I look, and I see an Eagle, greater than any I have ever seen. He cries in a loud voice:

_Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Arnor,_

_for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,_

_and the Dark Tower is thrown down._

_Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,_

_for your watch hath not been in vain,_

_and the Black Gate is broken,_

_and your King hath passed through,_

_and he is victorious._

_Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,_

_for your King shall come again,_

_and he shall dwell among you_

_all the days of your life._

_And the Tree that was whithered shall be renewed,_

_and he shall plant it in the high places,_

_and the City shall be blessed._

_Sing all ye people!_

And the people sang.

But I did not.

I am not free.

Not yet.

**A/N: **As usual, please R&R!


	5. Darkness Departs

**Summary: **Faramir battles with angst and self-denial after he fails to recapture Osgiliath.

**A/N: **Not the last chapter... Not yet... Bear with me, please!

**Disclaimer: **Faramir is not mine. Éowyn is not mine. Minas Tirith is not mine. Angst is mine.

Each day, I rise early to begin the day early. The day is full of preperations for the return of the captains, a day which all people are anticipating. Many people have come near and far. Some are singers, some are musicians... This will be a day Gondor will remember for many generations to come.

And each day, I am filled with the longing for Éowyn. I long to hold her hand, to speak with her, and to see her smile again. Occasionally, I will see her walking quietly amidst the clamor of the City.

I am resting in the shade, and I hear someone calling my name. I open my eyes and I see the Warden comes to me. His face is knitted and he appears distressed. He is wringing his hands, and I nearly laugh aloud at this comical sight. However, I keep my mouth shut and rises when he is near enough.

"My lord!" says the Warden, his voice in a whiny-pitch. "The Lady Éowyn, she is not well."

"Éowyn?" I repeat, thinking of her. "What ails her?"

"I do not know, lord," says the Warden. "A messenger came to her today, from her brother Éomer, asking her to come to Cormallen. But I saw the messenger leave without her, lord. I went to her room and I saw her on her bed, quiet and still. I am worried; I do not know what is wrong with her. Would you not go to her?" His eyes beg for me to do something.

I nod. "Tell the lady to meet me on the walls. I shall be waiting for her."

As I wait for Éowyn, many thoughts come to me. Why has Éowyn not departed?

Could it be...?

Nay, I am only dreaming.

"Faramir." The voice is soft, reluctant.

I turn and the words come out faster than I want them to. "Éowyn, why do you tarry here, and do not go to the rejoicing in Cormallen beyond Cair Andros, where your brother awaits you?" I search her face, and I see regret.

"Do you not know?"

I do not. I decide to buy time. "Two reasons there may be, but which is true, I do not know."

Her eyes flash with anger, and she cries out in frustration, "I do not wish to play at riddles. Speak plainer!"

I let the words out. "Then if you will have it so, lady." I take a deep breath before continuing, "You do not go, because only your brother called for you, and to look upon the Lord Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph would now bring you no joy. Or because," I force myself not to hesitate, "I do not go, and you desire still to be near me. And maybe for both these reasons, and you yourself cannong chose between them."

Tears gather in her eyes, and I find her beautiful in all her sorrow. I cannot hold it back any longer.

"Éowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?"

I look into her face, glowing gold in the sunlight. The tears are replaced by anger and she said bitterly, "I wished to be love by another. But I desire no man's pity."

I took another deep breath. "That I know," I say slowly. "You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth." Suddenly, I am thinking of Boromir, and I say, "And as a great captain may to a young soldier, he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now is." I tread carefully. "But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle." Her eyes drop, and I say, "Look at me Éowyn!"

She looks at me, and I want her to see the truth in my eyes. "Do not scorn the pity that is a gift of a gentle heart, Éowyn!" I say gently. "But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful, I deem, beyond even the words of the elven-tongue to tell." I surpress an embarressed smile. "And I love you," I say quietly. "Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you." I look into her eyes and I ask, "Éowyn, do you not love me?"

And I wait. I have spoke, and it is up to her now. Her eyes search mine, and I feel them pour into my soul.

And then, I see joy.

"I stand in Minas Arnor, the Tower of the Sun!" Éowyn says, smiling; "and behold! the Shadow has departed! I will be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren." I smile, joy welling in my heart. She looks at me. She smiles back and whispers, "No longer do I desire to be a queen."

I laugh merrily. "That is well," I say; "for I am not a king. Yet I will wed with the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she will, then let us cross the River and in happier days let us dwell in fair Ithilien and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes."

Éowyn's smile fades. "Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor?" she asks sadly. "And would you have your proud folk say of you: 'There goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North! Was there no woman in the race of Numenor to choose?'"

Without hesitation, I say, "I would." She smiles, and my heart swells with love for her.

I take her into my arms and I kiss her under the sunlit sky. I feel many eyes on us, but I do not care. I hold her, and she holds me. Finally, I release her and Éowyn is smiling. I take her hand and we walk down from the walls into the Houses of Healing.

The Warden is pacing back and forth. But when he sees both of us, he lets out a sigh of relief. I say to him, "Here is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, and now she is healed."

"Then I release her from my charge," says he, "and bid her farewell, and may she suffer never hurt nor sickness again. I commend her to the care of the Steward of the City, until her brother returns."

Éowyn looks at me, as if asking me if she can speak, and I nod. "Yet now that I have leave to depart," she says, "I would remain. For this house has become to me of all that dwellings the most blessed."

I take Éowyn's hand and I smile. The Warden walks away.

"Thank you," I say.

"Thank you?" she says, puzzled. "I should be thanking you? What are you thanking me for, lord?"

"For making me see," I say and I kiss her again.

**A/N: **One more chapter! I'm working on it! Please R&R!


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